Dark of the Void (Forged Alliance Book 1) Read online

  “If we’re picking up cargo, it’s going to be something compact,” said Maddox. “It doesn’t take a genius to figure that out.”

  “The underlying question is why us, Commander,” said Fredericks. “We’re no faster than any of the other warships out here and we’re way slower than those annihilators.”

  “The cargo is exceptionally valuable,” Flint said. His eyes went back to the mission documentation to ensure he wasn’t about to divulge something classified. “It’s a product of the refining plant on Tibulon. Once it’s onboard, we’re heading to Basalt and dropping it off at one of the research facilities on the Amber base. The stationed warships are remaining – I guess that means protecting the surface facility is more important than what we’re picking up.”

  “Exceptionally valuable, huh?” said Maddox, fishing for details.

  Flint hesitated. “I don’t know what it is, but the work here on Tibulon is something to do with propulsion,” he said.

  Evidently better informed, Fredericks gave his input. “I’ve heard they’re extracting ingar from those rocks – that’s the substance the research labs are hoping to use as a stabiliser for superstressed ternium.”

  “So we’ve found the holy grail?” asked Maddox with a short laugh. “I thought it didn’t exist.”

  “Every problem has a solution, Commander,” said Fredericks. “That’s what I believe, anyway.”

  “We’re still way behind what the Lavorix were capable of,” said Lieutenant Bolan. “If this ingar allows us to hold ternium in a stable state for longer, we might even leapfrog those alien bastards. Those dead alien bastards.”

  “Thank you for the input, Lieutenant,” said Flint dryly. “We’ve been at a brick wall for years when it comes to propulsion research. If the scientists think they’ve figured out a way around, over or straight through that wall, I still won’t believe it until I see one of our warships hit seven thousand kilometres per second.”

  “Why stop at seven thousand?” asked Fredericks. “Ten thousand is a nice, round number.”

  “This is all exciting to think about, folks,” said Flint, realising he’d been drawn into the conversation. “Let’s save it for later. If we stay at fifty million klicks for much longer, someone’s going to come on the comms and start asking questions.”

  “How are we finishing the journey, sir?” asked Maddox. “It’s four minutes to warm up for another lightspeed journey, or a few seconds if we use our short range lightspeed transit.”

  “You know the regulations, Commander. If there’s an alternative, the SRT stays in the bag until it’s actively required, and I don’t see anything shooting at us.”

  “Four minutes it is,” said Maddox.

  “Fire it up, Lieutenant Bolan,” said Flint. “Once I’ve brought us to a halt, target our arrival point at the regulation distance and try not to hit any of those satellites.” He hauled the control bars towards him and the ternium drive roared as it brought the fourteen-billion-ton warship to zero velocity.

  “That’s half a million klicks directly over the facility, sir,” said Bolan once the Loadout was at a standstill. “Coordinates entered, lightspeed calculations underway.”

  A standard lightspeed transit had a calculation overhead, which required heavy lifting from a warship’s processing cores before the ternium in the propulsion system could force open a lightspeed tunnel. The utilisation gauges for the two obliterator cores both shot up to 95% and held there.

  The easier way was for Flint to push a couple of buttons on his left control bar and activate the heavy cruiser’s SRT, which compressed the calculations into a hundredth of a second and combined the output with the sensor data to allow an instant transit lasting a few seconds.

  Unfortunately, the method put the control hardware under enormous strain and the Loadout could only perform a single SRT every five minutes. The original technology had been taken from alien species now extinct and the inherent limitations had not yet been overcome.

  “Lieutenant Becerra, have you informed the ground controller of our intentions?” asked Flint.

  “Yes, sir. I’ve told them we’re on our way.”

  Flint didn’t respond and he watched the timer for the lightspeed warmup. For a reason he couldn’t fathom, the muscles between his shoulders were tense, like they usually were when something didn’t feel right.

  “Anything on the nears?” he asked.

  “No, sir, the scans are clear,” said Garrett. “Near and far.”

  “Something wrong, sir?” asked Maddox.

  “Not that I’m aware,” said Flint with a shake of his head. “I’m just making sure everyone’s on their toes.”

  Maddox held his gaze for a moment longer and then turned her eyes to her station. The timer fell to zero and the Loadout entered lightspeed for a fraction of a second, before it was ejected once more into local space.

  Chapter Two

  Fleet Admiral Recker opened the latest copy of the analysis report with a feeling of trepidation, and his eyes went straight to the last line on the page.

  “It’s increased again,” he said.

  “Yes, sir,” said Lieutenant Garber. She stood with her hands behind her back and her lips were tight together.

  “Probability of normality aberration 3.2%,” said Recker. “A one-point-one percent increase in the last two days.” He closed the cardboard folder and dropped it onto his desk, where it landed with a slap. Recker pointed at the second person in the room and waited.

  Research Lead Mills was a completely bald, thickset man, who looked more like a fighter than a thinker. Even so, he wilted beneath Recker’s stare. “There is no single dataset or variable accounting for the increase, sir,” Mills said. “I’ve had everyone in my team cross-checking. We reverted the recent algorithm changes and ran the report again. Twice.”

  “And?”

  “Same outcome each time, sir.”

  “If there’s no specific variable responsible for this increase, how many variables are influencing the result?”

  Mills shifted balance. “Most of them.” He cleared his throat. “This is what the analysis is designed to capture, sir. We gather all available data and see what it tells us about the future.”

  “It tells us nothing!” snapped Recker. He reined in his temper, aware that since he was the man approving the funding for Mills and his team, maybe he should cut them some slack. “What else can this normality aberration tell us?”

  “No specifics, sir,” said Mills. “The remit of my team has always been the same – predict the likelihood of a critical negative event, in order that we can prepare for it.”

  “We’ve had twelve years of preparation,” said Recker, aware he was parroting the words Garber had said a couple of days ago. “Is the rate of change predictable?”

  “On the normality aberration?” asked Mills, looking as if he hadn’t anticipated the question. “Given a few more days, yes – assuming the increase continues. Right now, I can’t offer you anything meaningful, sir.”

  “Is there any way we can manipulate the data to gain insight on a more focused area of what will be affected by the coming change?” asked Recker.

  “Like where an attack will come from?” asked Mills. He offered a half smile. “As you know, the models aren’t precise, sir. We’re predicting events which haven’t yet happened – we’re trying to outguess the universe here. Every refinement of the modelling process improves the method and the output, but the percentage of each improvement has so many zeroes after the decimal point that I couldn’t write them all out by hand.”

  “I get the idea,” said Recker. He drummed his fingers on the desk. “Is there anything you need from me, RL Mills?”

  “Another sixteen obliterator cores would allow real time analysis of the data, sir. Perhaps the extra processing power would generate new insights as well as throwing up additional anomalies.”

  Anomalies were the lifeblood of the predictive research, or so Fleet Admiral Telar had
once explained it to Recker. These anomalies were produced by conflicts in the data analysis – where every set of data simultaneously predicted a different outcome. The more often the model was regenerated, the more anomalies showed up.

  Despite his scepticism, Recker had more than a passing interest in how it all worked, though he’d never got his head around why diverging data – the anomalies – were more important than converging data. Maybe one day he’d get Mills to spell it out in clear terms.

  “We don’t have sixteen lying around,” said Recker. Each core was astronomically expensive to manufacture and required numerous rare materials of a type which didn’t grow on trees. “Besides, I’m not sure I want to watch a continuously-updating graph telling me how likely it is that our alliance is about to suffer a potentially catastrophic event.” He narrowed his eyes at a sudden memory. “You requested those sixteen cores two years ago.”

  “Yes, sir, and the request was turned down.”

  “It was,” said Recker. He gave a short laugh. “We’re building spaceships faster than we’re building obliterator units, RL Mills.”

  “That’s what you told me at the time, sir.”

  “In that case, let us hope that if the Kilvar are on their way, we obtain more value from those additional warships than we would have done from real time analysis of our data and from the extra anomalies.” Recker stood. “Thank you for your time, RL Mills, you can return to your team. Lieutenant Garber, don’t go anywhere.”

  “What are your orders, sir?” she asked, once the door had closed behind Mills.

  “You’re coming with me to see my wife.”

  Garber’s mouth twitched. “Are you sure you don’t want to go alone, sir?”

  “Not scared are you, Lieutenant?”

  “Definitely not, sir.”

  “Good. Is the shuttle still on the roof?”

  “It’s your shuttle, sir. Nobody’s going to jump in and go for a ride.” She stared directly ahead. “Except for that one time.”

  “Three inebriated Daklan scientists,” said Recker. He wasn’t sure why, but the theft of his shuttle five years ago always made him smile, though he doubted the perpetrators remembered the incident with anything like the same fondness. Assuming they remembered it at all.

  “The roof, sir?” prompted Garber. “And should I request the attendance of anyone else from your team?”

  “You can fill them in later, Lieutenant. I’m visiting the research facility to keep an eye on progress, nothing more. I’m not expecting any…” Recker stopped himself. “Maybe I am expecting news.”

  Garber aimed a finger at the left-hand wall. “In that case, Lieutenant Vogel is just along the corridor, sir, as is Lieutenant Farrow.” The finger rotated until it was pointing at the floor. “And Captain Osteen is in his office.”

  “Leave them,” said Recker, heading for the door. “Are you going to lecture me on my hardening arteries if I stop for a coffee as we walk past the replicator?”

  “Your arteries are fine, sir. You’ll remember I have access to your medical reports.”

  “Yes, I remember,” said Recker, opening the door.

  He entered a tiled corridor, which was on the highest floor of the central administration building and opposite Lieutenant Garber’s office. He’d chosen the location carefully to keep outside footfall to a minimum. After quitting full-time warship duties, he’d quickly learned that if personnel were just passing his door, they’d far more often have a reason to stop and bother him with a minor decision than if they had to make a special journey. Recker’s door was – metaphorically speaking – always open, but his time was precious and he didn’t enjoy shouting at personnel for disturbing him excessively.

  Recker had never got out of the habit of wearing combat boots and his heels produced a muted thud on the pale blue floor. A group of his personnel walked by, heading in the opposite direction, and he greeted them with a nod and a brief spoken acknowledgement.

  “They seem agitated,” Recker said, once he and Garber were out of earshot.

  “Word is getting out, sir.”

  That brought a wry smile to Recker’s face. “It always does. What are the rumours saying?”

  “No one talks to me, sir,” said Garber. “I’m your personal assistant and they probably think I’ll come running to you and spill whatever beans I’m told.”

  “And would you?” Recker glanced sideways.

  Garber gave him a grin. “Depends on what it is, sir. There was a rumour about you having a ternium implant in your brain a couple of years ago…”

  “I heard that one from Lieutenant Farrow.”

  “I didn’t think you needed to know about it.” Garber’s expression turned serious. “Anything important, I’d let you know.”

  “So these current rumours?”

  “I’ve heard bits and pieces, all guesswork. It won’t take long before the whispers of Kilvar start spreading.”

  “That’s what I think too,” said Recker.

  They arrived at the airlift which would take them to the shuttle pad on the roof. Recker touched the illuminated wall panel nearby, summoning the car from the ground floor. Meanwhile, his brain turned over, pondering the short conversation with Garber.

  All things considered, Recker knew he was walking a fine line. Since taking over the position of fleet admiral, he’d followed in his predecessor’s footsteps by twisting arms and beating down opposition to the military’s endless hunger for funding. For fourteen years now, the HPA had poured in the money – first in a too-late response to fight the Daklan and then continuing through the comparatively short but brutal war against the Lavorix.

  Memories were long, but they faded, and over the last few years, people had begun to ask when the constant drain on resources would end – when those long-promised peace dividends would start paying.

  At the beginning of this new road – laid down when the Lavorix were defeated – Recker had believed the Kilvar were on the doorstep and waiting for their moment to strike. His certainty they were coming had never wavered and a small part of him desperately hoped that the change to the normality aberration did indeed herald an encounter with this unknown species of alien. Perhaps, he thought, it was better to face them now than to have the threat forever hanging over the alliance.

  The double doors to the lift opened. Entering the empty car, Recker selected his destination from the wall panel. A faint sense of acceleration followed and then the doors opened, to reveal the extensive, flat roof of the admin building.

  Outside, the air was thick – a combination of coming rain and the heavy bass of propulsions from the landing strip and the dozens of shuttles visible all around. The shuttle pad was about sixty metres away, with sloped sides of alloy-reinforced concrete. Parked on top, a lone transport waited. Heading for it, Recker breathed in deeply, savouring the scent of metal and ternium which clung to the Amber base. Beneath his feet the roof was wet and the sky above was so deeply grey it reminded him of late autumn days in his hometown on Earth.

  “I never get sick of the view,” said Garber.

  Recker turned in the direction she was facing. The low wall around the roof’s edge wasn’t far to his right and it didn’t impede his view across the base. Stretching into the distance, he saw square edges, domes and towers. High above, the sleek shape of the battleship Pioneer drifted lazily above the base, the warship’s weaponry and countermeasures adding to the thousands of surface-mounted batteries that protected not only Amber, but the towns and cities of Basalt.

  A squad of eight human soldiers in full combat gear jogged down the shuttle pad ramp to meet Recker.

  “Corporal Rosa,” said Recker, greeting the squad leader.

  “Fleet Admiral Recker,” she replied. Corporal Noble Rosa was a mean-looking veteran of past conflicts, though her squad were fresh-faced. “Are you taking the shuttle, sir?”

  “I am,” said Recker, not slowing. The ramp was steep but short and his leg muscles enjoyed the strain.
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  “My squad should accompany you, sir,” said Rosa, keeping pace.

  “Negative, Corporal. I’m staying on base – I don’t need an escort.”

  Rosa took the hint. “Yes, sir.”

  At twenty metres from nose to tail, the shuttle was a mid-sized model, boxy and with a tapered front section. It rested on eight landing legs and it betrayed a look of solidity which wasn’t surprising since its armour was two metres thick. A minigun turret capable of knocking out light vehicles was slung beneath the cabin.

  Extendable steps led to the open side entrance and Recker climbed into the airlock. The light on the inner door was green and he passed through into the utilitarian passenger bay which was fitted with durable seats. Entering the cockpit, Recker felt the same old tingling sense of excitement that came whenever he was in a vessel capable of flight.

  “The engine’s running, the lights are green,” he said, completing a cursory inspection of the pilot’s console. “The ground controller has given clearance to lift off and will divert low priority traffic from our intended course.”

  Garber had taken the second of three cockpit seats and she didn’t say anything. Recker had never been one for delay or hesitation and he took hold of the twin control sticks. The sensors indicated that Rosa and her squad were out of the way, and having little else to keep them occupied, they watched from the edge of the pad.

  With an ease born of countless hours’ practice, Recker lifted the shuttle straight off the ground, producing an agricultural grumble from the low-grade ternium propulsion.

  “A better view from up here,” said Recker, increasing forward thrust. The shuttle accelerated across the roof and into open space. A hundred and fifty metres below, ground vehicles sped along the multi-lane roads that criss-crossed the base.

  “Yes, sir,” said Garber dutifully.

  The main research facility was twenty kilometres north and Recker guided the shuttle towards it. East, the landing strip was an immense plain of reinforced concrete and the row of parked warships filled him with a sense of pride. Four heavy cruisers and two battleships were landed for routine maintenance, while another thirty-nine patrolled the skies over the planet.